


Comes love (nothing can be done)

by lookitsstevie, NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bearded Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crimes & Criminals, Detective Noir, Explicit Sexual Content, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Homophobia? We don't know her, Light Angst, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Unrequited Lucifer/Crowley, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookitsstevie/pseuds/lookitsstevie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: When the body of his informant appears at the docks, Detective Aziraphale will have to dig deeper to find someone else to help him bring down crime lord Lucien Morningstar. When he goes to his club, he doesn't expect to find someone who will shake his world and will make him hope for things he had given up long ago.A Good Omens Noir AU.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 84





	Comes love (nothing can be done)

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened because apparently Stevie and I have lots of active mental bunnies and we were set on fire while watching a random photograph that screamed NOIR. 
> 
> Yeah, we have no self control. 
> 
> I have to thank [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap), [divinehedonism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinehedonism/pseuds/divinehedonism), [Phantomstardemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon/pseuds/Phantomstardemon) for all their support (kindly holding my hand) and to [Hatknitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) for the beta!

Six in the evening, and the day has finally gone to waste. 

The cold at the Chicago harbor knifes at Aziraphale's cheeks, at his neck. The last slivers of the washed-out light sluice through wisps of clouds, making the city look dirty in the tired evening, slate-grey like the rolling clouds above. Like the grime on the docks. 

Aziraphale tosses his cigarette stub to the ground, crushes it under his heel. There's been a tip-off, a stranger's words at the precinct's front desk, talking about a body being disposed of at the harbor just the night before. Dumped down into the sprawled depths of the cold ocean below. 

If this is the work of the people he suspects it is, it will be easy to find out. They always intend the murders as warnings, and they aren't shy about their handiwork. 

He watches the men pull the ropes, fighting gravity with huffs and grunts, under the orders of their sergeant. The efforts prove effective when they finally unload a lump, tied in black bags, onto the concrete of the docks. 

It's an unpleasant sight. 

The squelch of the workers' boots are loud over the rolling of the waves, and Aziraphale circles the gruesome bundle, signaling some men to cut the ropes, the plastic around it an unfamiliar detail for Lucien Morningstar's organization, but not unheard of. 

"Just a Thursday, eh, Aziraphale?"

He's startled when Captain Gabriel pats him on the shoulder, standing by his side. 

"Quite," Aziraphale murmurs. "Not exactly how I was expecting to close my day. But work; can't escape it, can we?"

Gabriel barks a dry laugh, at odds with the show on display, with the sodden khakis being uncovered, with the glacial stiffness of the hands on the floor. 

"Want to take a closer look, Sir?" the sergeant asks

Aziraphale nods, and the sergeant crouches to cut the bag around the dead man's face, the piece of marling around his neck. 

A fleeting spark of anger kindles in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach when he sees the grey-blue mess of the cheeks, the closed eyes. 

It's Eric. 

Aziraphale blinks away the threatening headache, breathes to ease away the tightness in the set of his jaw. He can see the purple nebulas on Eric's neck, on his face. It's very clear that he had taken a beating before dying

He takes a second too long, considers their last talk, when he'd told Aziraphale he was on the verge of discovering something big. He watches the familiar clothes Eric wore half the time, torn in places, splattered with his own blood. 

A brutal crime. 

"Everything alright, Aziraphale?" Gabriel steps closer. Probably noticing the way he stiffened, the way his head dipped between his shoulders the smallest bit. "You seem tense."

"I'm perfectly fine," Aziraphale grates out. "You very well know I've seen worse, in the war."

Gabriel hums behind him. "Then what is it?"

Aziraphale levers up, sets his coat to rights where it has crinkled, runs cold fingers through his hair. "He was my informant."

"Ah," Gabriel tsks. "For the Morningstar case?"

Aziraphale nods, signals for the Coroner to pick up the body. He watches as the waning light catches on the ring Eric wore on his index finger, courtesy of his mom. It's still there, squeezing the swollen flesh. So ordinary, so utterly mundane. 

Death always has a way of dwarfing meanings, of magnifying details. A constant paradox of what life is supposed to be. 

"Well, tough luck," Gabriel says. "Back to square one?"

"Not really."

"What do you mean?"

Aziraphale glances at the gurney onto which the Coroner and his helpers have loaded the body, and frowns. "Eric did tell me a great many things." 

"Well, sorry to break it to you, Sunshine," Gabriel scoffs, "but without his testimony, that's worthless." 

"Yes, but perhaps–" Aziraphale clears his throat. "Perhaps I can convince someone else to turn on Morningstar." 

For a second, Aziraphale is afraid he’ll find a barrier in Gabriel. He's been incredibly difficult to handle throughout the investigation. Afraid, perhaps, of the potential consequences for himself. If Lucien Morningstar decides to turn his political machinery against him, he could see his dream of becoming Mayor vanish into the fog. 

But Gabriel folds his arms across his chest, a finger tapping his lower lip, and nods. 

"Sounds like a possibility." He beckons Aziraphale to follow him, their steps heavy on the pier. They head to one side, away from the cluster of people finishing up the evidence collection. "I've been told he'll be at the 'Original Sin' club today." Gabriel tilts his head closer, his face half obscured by his fedora. "Go there. Make yourself known. Make sure he sees that we're onto him."

Aziraphale glances at the distant line of the horizon, at the twilight stuck on a leaden hue. 

"Wouldn’t that be reckless?" he asks. His voice is flat, a bit dry. 

"Nah, not at this point. If he killed your informant, he knows everything." Gabriel taps Aziraphale's chest with an accusing forefinger. "That crook needs to know we're not afraid of him."

Someone catches Gabriel attention then, some reporters gathering beyond the caution line. It's time to show a face and give a speech. And Gabriel excels at that. 

Aziraphale walks away slowly, past the cars and the flashbulbs. Past the Coroner's team. 

He lets out a pent-up breath in a chest-heaving sigh and ties his coat tighter. He looks at his watch. 

Almost seven o'clock. There are still two hours, give or take, before he can make an appearance at Morningstar's club.

Perfect interlude for a meal. 

After all, he is feeling rather peckish. 

* * *

It's night already, and darkness has crept slowly across the moody city, beneath the sheen of rain.

Silently. 

It’s a carcass set to rot. 

In the half-lights of the street, everything seems barely awakened. It’s as if the pot-holed asphalt yawns in curls of fog, dank and cold, breathing out all the vices of the day. Aziraphale sighs away, the exhaustion seeping into his body. Rolling his neck, letting the tired edge drip from his limbs as the swirls of water drip down the grates into the underground. There was a time when setting an example, making a difference, had mattered. But it was so long ago, the feeling has faded into the comfortable plushness of his armchair. The indulgent hours of a well-known routine. 

Somewhere between the Ardennes and the Somme, something had cracked in him. When the blood and despair had reached a deafening point, everything else – hopes, above all – had just fallen away. Withered. 

Still, he presses. He presses on, because there is nothing else to do. Not a great many things in his life to cling to. His books, yes. A good cigar. The thick, heady taste of a warm meal. 

Good-enough things. Barely.

The sleek lines of a nearby building gleam, grazed by the cat-eyes of a speeding car, and Aziraphale is yanked out of his thoughts. 

He glances at the entrance of the club, a lavish building painted white, with a porticoed entrance blocked by guards. The ‘Original Sin’ club stands in the middle of a busy avenue, a steady stream of patrons drifting in and out. Aziraphale recognizes a few politicians, a couple of reporters, even a congressman, leaving the place with vapid smiles on their faces. 

The owner, Lucien Morningstar, is, after all, one of the most prominent businessmen in the city. 

Aziraphale knows he needs to handle this carefully. A stray glance, a word out of time, and he could well kiss his life goodbye. This is the wolf’s den. 

He has no doubt that it was Lucien who killed Eric. He does have doubts about the  _ how.  _ Coming here is a first step, in a way. Stir the dark waters, see if something surfaces. 

There must be someone here that wants to talk. There always is, around men like Lucien. 

He crosses the street, his winter coat flapping in the wind funneled between the buildings, and makes his way inside, brushing off the suspicious looks thrown at him by the guards. This isn’t a dive, but one of the most reputable clubs in the city, and it shows in the walnut furniture, in the dazzling chrome-edged bar. 

The tables are full, and the room is just this side of dimly-lit, awash in amber light from the lamps on the walls. Aziraphale casts about, aware of the weight of his gun in its holster, just a pull away if needed.

He shoulders his way through the gaggle of people – men in fine suits, women in expensive-looking dresses – and sits on a stool at the bar. The moment seems to slip by lazily while he orders a whiskey,  _ neat _ , and feels the weight of anticipation pushing down on his shoulders, as if everyone in the room has quieted their murmurs, waiting for something.

The band croons softly, then, spilling out easy notes, while the curtain sways and is pulled to one side. A song wafts around Aziraphale, soft like a caress, the opening chords and the brassy lilt of a trumpet crossing the air, rippling along the velvets, the silks and cashmeres. 

Aziraphale’s eyes are drawn to the stage. 

A breath that stings of smoke catches in his throat, burns in his lungs. 

Because someone is singing to the crowd. Tilting their chiseled face to one side, their crimson lips parted around a word poured into the microphone. It's as if the world has stifled its noises, dampened its colors, because the singer rises above everything dressed in lace, and Aziraphale can't tear his eyes away. 

They're  _ breathtaking _ . 

Aziraphale watches the way their red hair falls past their shoulders, the strands vibrant, flaming almost, but with a look of softness; stark over the glittering black dress. 

Aziraphale takes them in with a slow sweep of his eyes. The way the light catches on those sharp, flushed cheekbones, the long slope of that throat, rolling fluidly on each word. The way the slender angles of their body flex when they walk across the stage, the trim curve of their waist, the delicate flare of their hips. 

Something in his stomach tangles, hot and desperate, rising and pushing wildly against his ill-stitched broken pieces, against that one small place inside him still not ground away into numbness. 

Aziraphale's heart beats in his ears, hard enough to be a match to the beat of the drums, and his fingers curl hard around the cool, slightly damp glass, and in that moment, those devastating amber eyes find him.

Fix on him, heavy with intent. 

_ Comes love,  _ they sing, a soft rasp, _ nothing can be done. _

_ _

Aziraphale's own gaze is traitorous, painfully transparent in his eagerness to not let a hint of the singer’s movement go unnoticed. His gaze lingers on that face, on those lips painted red. On those eyes that flick over Aziraphale's own face, making the air in his lungs burn on its way out. 

There's no one else here, in this moment. That pulses beneath his skin, searing a brand in his mind. It tastes like a midnight fantasy, and he's half inclined to try to blink the daze away.

But couples are already filling the dancefloor, gliding over the white marble, breaking the moment with their noise: the click of heels, the rustle of clothes, the gales of laughter. 

The clink of glass on wood. 

Aziraphale realizes his jaw has fallen a bit slack, his fingers now loose around his tumbler while he watches the band–  _ who is he trying to deceive _ ? While he watches the  _ singer _ coo their song to the room. A faraway ache makes itself known behind Aziraphale's ribs, like a forgotten bruise from a past life. It cracks through the glass encasement of routine and bleak days. It tastes a lot like hope.

Of stretching this moment, of  _ feeling _ , as he hasn't in so long. 

And he holds the singer's gaze with his own through the melody, bites his lip when they do, feeling the beat of an unabated, naked need. Need of a touch, a word. Anything. 

He almost doesn't notice when the song ends, the roaring applause that follows, finally snapping from the haze when the redhead disappears behind a curtain, flicking their eyes one last time to Aziraphale.

Stopping there for five long seconds, like a brazen sort of dare, before smirking over their shoulder with a flash of white and disappearing from sight. 

The band starts playing a lively tune, but Aziraphale's gaze is lost to the middle distance, to some point in the red velvet of the curtain. It's wishful thinking. 

They won't return. 

"Gotta drink to keep sitting here," the bartender says behind him. "So, what can I get you?"

Aziraphale turns on his stool. "I- I'm sorry, just out of curiosity, what's the name of the singer?"

The bartender rolls their eyes and frowns. "Not this again," they mutter. "His name's Crowley, but you better be asking for whiskey and not him, unless you wanna end up in a ditch."

"I beg your pardon?"

The bartender throws a glance to somewhere on his left, over Aziraphale's shoulder. They grab a pristine-looking towel and make a show of drying some pitchers. 

"Crowley's the boss's favorite. His little toy," they say, with just a hint of a barb underneath. Aziraphale feels his stomach churn. "He has a debt to pay, and the boss won't let him go until he pays back the last dime."

"Are they an item, then?" Aziraphale knows he shouldn't be prying about Morningstar's love life, as if he were a reporter of the lowest sort. But the question pops out of his mouth, unbarred. 

His mind is filled with red hair and amber eyes, wanting to know, to sate a selfish sort of curiosity that sinks nails in his chest.

The bartender huffs a laugh. "Why?" His mouth opens in a slash of white. "You have an interest in that stock? I'm telling you. Ask for another whiskey or get lost."

In the background, a trombone strikes a C-sharp, out of tempo. 

"A whiskey then," Aziraphale bristles. 

"Neat, right?"

"Yes."

He watches the bartender serve him out of a half-empty bottle. "Look," they say, pushing the tumbler in Aziraphale's direction. "You seem like an okay sort. So, a piece of advice: better to not ask questions around here."

Aziraphale takes a sip of the whiskey, feels the afterburn drag down his throat, woodsy on his tongue. 

"What's your name?" Aziraphale asks, as if he didn't care. Easy, loose words. 

They hesitate for a second before speaking again. "You can call me Dagon."

It's risky in the wildest way, but Aziraphale's mind is already made up. He sinks a hand in a pocket of his coat, produces a cream card that lingers at his side, between middle and forefinger. 

"Look, Dagon," Aziraphale says. He extends the card with a lazy flick of a wrist, watches Dagon looking at the offering in the same way a wild animal would. "If you, or anyone, wants to talk about anything that happens here, this is my number."

"And what makes you think anyone here is gonna make that call?" Dagon asks, quirking a brow. They spare a look at whatever is on the other side of the room, probably making a decision with rapid-fire appraisal, before taking the card in their hand and hiding it in their breast pocket. 

Aziraphale sips his whiskey and smiles, "I have an inkling."

The moment spreads, and shatters with a discordant laugh from a nearby woman. The unfamiliar haze that had ensnared him minutes ago seems to have vanished, and he takes stock of the people around him. 

And then Aziraphale spots  _ him _ . 

At a tall table. Dark hair, handsome features. An impeccable suit, bespoke. 

Lucien Morningstar sits, insouciant and aloof, sipping a scotch from a tumbler similar to the one Aziraphale has in his hand. It makes Aziraphale grind his teeth hard enough to crunch gravel. 

It's a testament to the city's deplorable state, to the corruption that runs rampant: the fact that, despite accusations of murder, embezzlement, and drug trafficking, Morningstar can sit calmly, as if his conscience weren't tainted beyond repair. 

Perhaps he doesn't even have one. 

Aziraphale doesn't notice the figure approaching, the long, black lines coming close to the high table, until Lucien rises to his feet. 

It's Crowley.

Aziraphale can see the bare plane of his back, the way his skin gleams, almost golden, when he shifts slightly. The smooth, soft quality of it. He feels his own hand curving along his knee and squeezing, as if chasing the idea of pressing his palm there, on the curve at the small of that back. Something dark and heavy settles like a lead ball in the pit of his stomach. 

When Lucien takes Crowley's hand in his and kisses his knuckles. 

Aziraphale clenches his jaw, bile rising in his throat, before he sees something flitting across Crowley's face. The barest hint of agony, before he masks it. 

Or perhaps Aziraphale is just imagining as much, because, not a second later, Morningstar is lacing his arm around Crowley's waist, his fingers digging into Crowley's side. 

And Crowley's face is as unreadable as it was a few minutes ago, eyes gone glassy. 

The room swells with a swing tune, but Aziraphale couldn’t peel his eyes away from Crowley even if he wanted to. 

The sweep of his lashes, the red pout of his mouth, the proud chin. Aziraphale finds himself wanting to  _ look _ at him for a moment stretched long, savoring the sight of that beautiful display, even if it's sort of illicit. Edging on dangerous, all of his want viscerally exposed.

He would do well to remember that the man is taken, and entertaining idle fantasies is absolutely foolish. Because even if Crowley were free, this isn't something Aziraphale has a head to focus on.

He has work to do. 

But then, Crowley cranes the slender column of his neck, and his eyes, liquid almost, incredibly honest, set on his. It's a gaze that speaks volumes, and it's all for him.

A breath shoves its way out of Aziraphale, warm, fanning his own lips. There's a spark of interest in the depths of them, or a thing that looks a lot like it. And there's also something far more vulnerable that flares alive when Lucien tilts his head to whisper something in Crowley's ear. 

Aziraphale knows it's absolutely preposterous. There's nothing for him there, but it's impossible to tame the way his blood surges, the way his heart thunders while he looks at Crowley. Curling his nails into his palm, watching the way Lucien shifts closer to him. Not enough to be inappropriate, but enough to make a statement.

Aziraphale hasn't ever been able to steer himself away from traipsing the edge of destruction. Not since the war. 

This is no exception. 

Smoke rises with brutal enthusiasm from a hundred cigars, but before he can indulge a look back at Crowley's neck, at the fire-red curls of his hair, there are insistent, violent hands on his shoulders, around his arms. 

He turns around to see Lucien's goons, with vicious, unhinged smiles, as they start dragging him out of the club¸. 

The instinct to fight back is overwhelming, and Aziraphale knows it wouldn't take him more than a swift pull, a controlled turn, and the dexterous stretch of an arm to have those two on the ground. 

But he shouldn't draw attention to himself, especially now that he's clearly been spotted. He glances back at the tall table, only to see Crowley's lovely eyes open wide as he looks directly at him, and an amused smirk on Lucien's face before he winks right at him. 

Tossed unceremoniously out of the club, he straightens his spine, sets both feet hard against the ground. 

"The boss sends his regards, and kindly asks you to stop looking at what’s his," one of the brutes says. His white-blond hair stirs with the wind while he cracks his knuckles.

"People are not owned, my good fellow," Aziraphale replies. He adjusts his bowtie, Straightens his coat, completely unperturbed. "Please inform your boss that people are not things."

"Didya hear, Ligur?" The white-blond bloke jeers. "Chuckle-head here wants to teach the boss some manners. He wants to play hero for a worthless–"

"I strongly suggest you think about what you are going to say, because you won't have another chance." Aziraphale heaves a sigh and takes a step forward, setting his jaw, his shoulders. There's a red sort of rage scratching at the threads of Aziraphale's control, barely contained.

But he can't kill them in cold blood in the middle of the street like one of Capone's brutes. 

Still, the threat hangs in the damp air, and Aziraphale sees the pillocks take a step back, as if finally seeing him in his entirety. Their faces crumple as they stare at him. 

Aziraphale has been in this business long enough to see when the fear creeps in, the familiar sight of dilated pupils and mouths gone slack. 

"I hope you have a fine evening, gentlemen," Aziraphale nods curtly, sharply, just enough of an acknowledgement, only to see the men squirrel back inside the club. 

Well, then. 

Things just got a touch more complicated.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> You can find Stevie [here on Tumblr](https://lookitsstevie.tumblr.com/) (check out their amazing art!!)
> 
> And Naro on [Tumblr](https://naromoreau.tumblr.com/) <3  
> Or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xenoscientist/)<3
> 
> If you have any doubts or questions!


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